The wargs' noses twitched, and drool dripped from their mouths.
The direction the Uruk had just pointed to indeed carried a strong scent of blood, fresh blood. One sniff was enough to know it came from a recent slaughter.
"Roar!"
Fresh meat...
Thud.
Just as the wargs were about to pounce and feast, a severed, hideous head rolled over.
The wargs lowered their heads and gathered around to inspect.
It was the head of an Uruk, still fresh.
When they looked up again, a man stepped out of the darkness. His armor was as black as the wargs' fur, but in his hand gleamed a long sword that shone with bright blue light.
"ROAR!!!"
The wargs howled, but their fury wasn't directed at the man before them.
Curse that Uruk!
Uruks were, after all, a species far stronger, smarter, and more disciplined than ordinary orcs. To fulfill their master's commands, they could even suppress their inborn lust for blood and killing. They were highly organized and almost never fought among themselves. But when it came to getting things done, they were ruthless. If an enemy stood in their way, they killed them. And if one of their own stood in the way...
"You filthy orcs, don't block the road!"
The Uruks had just driven the wargs ahead to deal with the dangerous human, when another group of orcs rushed over, crowding onto the path.
The orc squad leader stepped forward and asked, "I smell blood. What happened here?"
"The wargs are hunting. You're too late."
"So there's fresh meat?" The orcs' eyes lit up.
"Of course. Plenty of it. I'd say there's freshly slaughtered flesh every moment."
The leading Uruk said with a meaningful smile.
"Looks like we're eating well tonight!"
The orc captain shouted back to his men. Just as they were about to rush forward and snatch food from the wargs, something occurred to him. His expression shifted as he turned back, suspicious.
"Wait, then why are you leaving?"
"Hahaha, we've already had our fill. The scraps are all yours."
The Uruk leader threw back his head and laughed twice, then waved for his men to retreat.
"Bah!"
The orc captain spat toward their retreating figures. Still, scraps were scraps, better than nothing.
He grew excited at once: "With me—"
Gak!
It was as though his throat had been clamped shut. Suddenly, no sound came out.
A figure was approaching, dragging the limp corpse of a warg. Clearly, it had just been killed.
Thump.
The lifeless warg's body was tossed aside.
The entire warg pack... slaughtered.
"Curse you, filth!"
The orc captain roared in fury, while his soldiers scattered in panic, fleeing in every direction.
But no matter how fast they ran, they couldn't outrun someone with seemingly endless stamina.
Soon, orc and warg corpses littered the ground. The Uruks, stripped of their living shields, had no choice but to keep running forward in terror.
"Just a little farther, just a little farther..."
Minas Morgul was right ahead!
"Hurry, faster! Once we retreat to Minas Morgul, the Witch-king will protect us!"
The Uruk captain shouted encouragement to his men.
"As long as we reach it, as long as we get there..."
The Uruks ran frantically until they reached a crossroads.
Beyond that crossroad, just a short distance ahead, lay Minas Morgul.
Long ago, Isildur, the High King of Gondor who cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, had built Minas Ithil, Gondor's sister-city and one of its greatest strongholds, right at the nation's border, directly facing Mordor's Black Gate.
Back then, the White Tree of Gondor had even been planted there. The city was nearly as important as the capital itself.
But when Sauron took up residence in Mordor, shadows spread across the land. At the height of his power, before he lost the Ring, Minas Ithil soon fell to the Nazgûl and their armies, becoming one of Mordor's key fortresses.
The White Tree planted there was destroyed. Thankfully, Isildur had taken a seedling back, which was later replanted in the White City.
After Sauron's first defeat, Gondor reclaimed Minas Ithil. Yet as the High Kings died out and the realm declined, Gondor weakened. In time, the Nazgûl captured it once more.
When Sauron returned, he granted the city to the Witch-king of Angmar. Under his rule, foul sorcery was laid upon the land, turning it into a poisoned wasteland. The very air became toxic mist, and the waters flowed with deadly venom.
From then on, Minas Ithil was renamed Minas Morgul, the "Tower of Black Arts."
Apart from orcs and other vile creatures, no living being could tread upon its soil without being tormented by constant poison and disease. In such a place, even if Gondor mustered a hundred thousand soldiers, they could scarcely take it.
Over time, people began calling it the Dead City.
Even Garrett had to sip honey every now and then to ward off the toxins when he entered this place...
"There, just ahead, the crossroads."
The Uruk captain breathed easier at the sight of a ruined Gondorian king's statue at the end of the road.
"Hold on! Beyond the crossroads is the Witch-king's domain. He won't follow us there!"
"The Witch-king protects us!"
"Does he, now?"
CLANG!
A long sword slashed down, sparks flying as it struck the armor of the leading Uruk.
"Pretty tough."
But only a little tougher, nothing more.
With another strike, Garrett cut down the Uruk before him, then kicked another one over and finished it off where it fell.
"There's no escape... no escape..."
The Uruk captain staggered backward.
Watching his subordinates cut down by that shadowy figure like wheat before the scythe, he could no longer keep his composure.
Just as he bellowed and prepared to charge in a desperate attack, Garrett suddenly stopped. With a flick of his sword he knocked aside the cleaver coming down at him, then grabbed the Uruk captain by the throat and slammed him to the ground.
Leaning close, his face filled the Uruk's terrified vision. He said slowly, "Go tell your kind, this land is mine now. Stay away unless you're looking for trouble."
"If I see more of you coming to harass me, I won't mind spending some extra time clearing out your camps from north to south."
"Now get out."
The crushing grip at his neck loosened, the pressure on his chest vanished. Gasping for air, the Uruk captain scrambled to his feet, not venturing to look at Garrett. He fled as fast as he could.
That night was drenched in slaughter. And then, a blood-red sun rose over the horizon.
---
"A blood sun... there must've been a massacre last night."
Between the crossroads and Minas Morgul, in a barren wasteland filled with dead trees and withered grass, two Rangers exchanged glances, each seeing the grimness in the other's eyes.
"Any word of a major operation recently?"
"None that I've heard."
"Then where did all this killing come from?"
Huff... huff...
Heavy, ragged breathing and the scrape of armor came from the roadside. The two Rangers immediately crouched low in the grass, pulling their cloaks tight for camouflage.
"An Uruk. No others."
Confirming this, the two exchanged another look.
"Take him."
Swish.
Daggers flashed as the Rangers leapt from hiding. In an instant the blade was at the Uruk's throat, halting him in his tracks.
"Talk. What are your forces planning?"
Realizing he had been captured yet again, rage surged in the Uruk captain's chest, but he would not act on it.
What to do now? Curse them in the Witch-king's name, try to terrify them?
No, that would only make these cursed Rangers slit his throat on the spot.
Then there was only one option...
"Plans? Hah! Yes, there's a big plan!"
"I advise you not to harm me. I'm carrying orders from the lord himself. If I'm delayed, you'll bring disaster upon yourselves!"
"This 'lord' of yours, who is he? Speak!"
They pressed him harder.
"Why, of course... Lord Garrett, your own legend."
...Huh?
The two Rangers blinked, caught off guard.
"Well, that's rich. A Mordor filth trying to scare us with the name of one of our own?"
"So, will you release me... or not?"
Strangely, the Uruk captain had grown unusually calm. He could feel the grip on his neck ease, just slightly.
The moment grew tense. Silence hung as the two Rangers hesitated.
Release him? Or not?
"How can we be sure you're not lying?"
"I can swear it."
"Wretched creature, your oaths are worthless."
"Heh... Believe or don't, that's your choice. But tell me, do your eyes exist only to make you look like blind men? Can't you go and see for yourselves if what I say is true?"
The hand tightened suddenly around his neck. The Uruk captain gasped, struggling as he rasped:
"Our whole detachment... wiped out by that lord alone! He spared only me. Isn't that proof enough? Or do you think someone of his power could simply 'forget' to kill one more?"
The Ranger narrowed his eyes, glaring at this slippery creature.
And yet, though the Uruk's life hung by a thread in his grasp, he felt an odd sense of helplessness.
He exchanged another look with his companion. Their conclusion was the same.
If the Uruk was telling the truth, this matter was far more important than one Uruk's life.
Snap.
The Ranger released him.
"Go. Do your duty. But if we discover you've lied, you'd best never set foot beyond Mordor again, for the very instant you do will be your last."
"Cough... cough..."
The Uruk captain drew in deep breaths, then grinned slyly.
"Of course. I'm glad you made the right choice, wouldn't want to delay the lord's work, after all."
It worked!
Using that name really worked!
As he ran back toward where his army should be, his heart brimmed with smug delight.
This was even more useful than invoking the Witch-king's curses. More effective than the master himself, even... No, no! I am loyal to the master, even unto death...
But the dark will surged up again, swallowing his thoughts.
Still, a tiny crack had been made.
Buried beneath that vast, oppressive darkness, a fissure now existed. Small, hidden, but there.
----------
If you're interested in a new story:
DC: Policeman in Gotham